


Strange Things Done in the Midnight Sun

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 17:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21149234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Thomas comes to him for the first time the morning after Le Vesconte dies."For Halloween Terror Fest Day Five: You Found Me Beautiful Once





	Strange Things Done in the Midnight Sun

**Author's Note:**

> The last of my Halloween fics! Title from Robert Service, "The Cremation of Sam McGee." As a Canadian in this fandom, I believe it's my moral, if not my legal, responsibility to use that poem somewhere. 
> 
> Mild sex, mild gore, brief body horror (yes, that one.) Ages based on the show wiki, rather than the novel.
> 
> Now with [a great image set by Sasheenka](https://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/188584933983/imageset-for-strange-things-done-in-the-midnight) and [ awesome art by Blixalesbian](https://blixalesbian.tumblr.com/post/188593057488/little-and-jopson-inspired-by-strange-things-done).

Thomas comes to him for the first time the morning after Le Vesconte dies. 

Edward and Le Vesconte have been sharing a bedroll for several nights. Edward couldn't say how many. The nights blur into days and back into nights again, and he's given up trying to keep count. 

Le Vesconte stinks, as Edward imagine he himself does, of illness and hunger and despair, but he is warm. They hold each other tightly. Edward pretends not to hear when Le Vesconte calls out for “James.” Le Vesconte pays him the same courtesy, removing Edward's hand without comment when it strays sleepily southwards on his person as Edward murmurs, “Thomas.” 

Edward awakens one day to find Le Vesconte cold in his arms. 

“No.” Edward speaks the word aloud. They were not particular friends before, but this is one more loss for Edward to bear, one more stab to a heart that is already so battered and bruised it can't take much more. Edward rests his forehead against Le Vesconte's as the tent flap rustles open. 

He expects it to be one of the others, the dwindling band of remnants. Instead, a familiar, beloved voice says, “Edward.” 

Abandoning Le Vesconte, Edward sits up straight. Thomas looks worse than ever. His lips are dry and cracked, his skin pale, his eyes sunken and shadowed. Every rib is visible through his thin white shirt. He is wearing only that and a pair of torn uniform trousers. His hair has grown even more in the weeks since they parted, reaching his shoulders and hanging over one eye, and his beard is scraggly and unkempt. 

“Thomas!” Edward needs to touch him. He hurries out of bed, ignoring the rush of cold as he leaves the warmth of the bedroll. Thomas steps back, out of his reach. It's no more than Edward deserves, not after he abandoned him. “How are you here? Did you follow us?” Guilt surges through him. “I'm so sorry, Thomas. I didn't want to leave you. I didn't feel there was a choice.” But that's the coward's way out, and Edward knows it. There is always a choice.

“You couldn't save me. I was dying.”

“You recovered?” It shouldn't be a question. It's not. The evidence is here, in front of Edward's eyes. 

“And I looked ghastly,” Thomas goes on, ignoring Edward. “I can hardly believe you found me beautiful once.”

“I did. I do. I still do, Thomas. Always. From the first moment I saw you.”

Thomas smiles. His gums are riddled with empty black holes. “The first moment,” he repeats. “Do you remember the first moment, Edward?”

Edward does. It's etched on his mind and kept in his heart. 

An Admiralty ball, six years before Terror. Edward was twenty-seven years old, fresh off his first voyage as a second lieutenant, full of pride and self-satisfaction. He strode into the room, a whirlwind of blue and brocade, like he owned the place, and stopped dead when his eyes alighted on the most beautiful creature in existence. 

Thomas Jopson, aged nineteen. Edward didn't know it at the time. All he knew was he had never seen anyone like this. It was if someone had rummaged about in his most private fantasies and conjured up a man just for him.

Strong, capable hands, currently refilling drinks as he sailed about the room with grace. Hair like jet and blue-green eyes like nothing Edward had ever imagined. Slender, but with a shapely backside that would neatly fill Edward's grasp, and Edward was too shaken even to be embarrassed by such lewd imaginings. He, who had arrived so puffed up, was in an instant deflated.

“You all right, my boy?” An old captain asked. “Look a bit peaky.”

“I'm fine. Thank you, sir. You!” Edward barked at the beautiful man, just so he could see that face turn to him. “Get me a drink.” 

“Of course, sir.” He filled a glass, with what Edward neither knew nor cared. When he passed it over, the man's fingers brushed lightly against Edward's, and Edward very nearly dropped the drink onto the floor. 

Up close, he was even more incredible. Even his nose, of all things, was amazingly sweet. Edward, who never looked upon men as true lovers but only as potential outlets for his deviant lusts, found himself longing to press a kiss to the tip of it. 

“What's your name?” Edward blurted. If the man found the question strange, he didn't show it. 

“Jopson, sir.” His accent was coarse, half-covered by something more refined. It put Edward in mind of a poorly wallpapered room, and it was utterly charming. 

“Thank you, Mr. Jopson.” 

“You're quite welcome, sir.” Jopson smiled at him. It was like looking at the sun. Edward felt elated and ill at the same time. 

Edward tried not to stare at Jopson, but ignoring him proved an impossible task. Jopson took over Edward's mind and his thoughts, residing there even when Edward couldn't see him. _Pure foolishness_, Edward chastised himself. If Jopson had been one of the single ladies in attendance, Edward could have proposed a dance. He was poor at both the dancing and the asking, but he would have tried. He might have pursued an acquaintanceship, maybe more, but as things stood, they would likely never see one another again. Edward's insides were twisting themselves into knots for no reason whatsoever. He needed to regain his composure.

With that view, Edward took a moment to step outside and clear his head. It was a mistake. Jopson was there, sitting on a stair. At once, he stood. “Sir.” 

“You can sit,” Edward said, quickly. The poor man had been on his feet for hours, Edward realized. It never occurred to Edward to feel sympathy for any steward or servant before. He had been remiss in that. “Please.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Jopson returned to the step. “Would you care to join me?” 

He shouldn't. He did.

“If I might ask you a question, Lieutenant?” Jopson looked at him. There was a freckle on his cheek, Edward noticed, and a smattering of spots on his forehead, a symptom of his youth. They did nothing to diminish his beauty. Edward couldn't imagine any condition or blemish that would.

“Yes?" Edward's heart hammered so loudly, he was surprised the vibrations didn't crack the steps beneath him. It was a warm summer's evening, suddenly too warm, and Edward felt stifled in his coat.

“I've been offered a shipboard position. Subordinate officers' steward.” _Lucky officers._ The thought of being dressed and undressed by this man on a daily basis sent a shiver up Edward's spine. At the same time he knew it would be an extremely dangerous position for he himself to be in. Edward's self-control was only so strong. “Would you have any words of wisdom for me, sir?” 

“Words of wisdom?” 

“You're a seasoned sailor. Is there any advice you might impart?” 

_Be born a lover of women, and never suffer temptation from a beautiful steward._ But Edward did love women, as well, and he had never suffered temptation on this scale before, from steward or sailor or anybody of either sex. “Work hard,” he said. “Obey your captain. Don't draw too much attention to yourself, not at first.” 

It was the blandest, most obvious advice possible. Still, Jopson said, “Thank you, sir,” like Edward had offered him some life-altering counsel. 

“I should return inside.” Edward made no move to do so. 

Jopson's eyes came up, fixing on Edward's until it was too overwhelming. Edward had to look away. When Jopson spoke, his voice was softer than before. “If there's anything else you wish to say to me, sir, I would welcome it. Anything at all.” 

Something touched Edward's foot. He looked down and saw Jopson's shoe resting beside his own. 

Edward stifled a groan. It was as good as permission to do what he wanted, to let everything pour out. To make quick, furtive love to this man immediately in some dark cupboard, then take him home, to Edward's lodgings, and do it again, slowly and languidly. To worship him the way he deserved to be worshipped, to kiss his way up one side of Jopson's body and down the other, to take Jopson into his mouth and adore him until he could take no more and spent in waves, which Edward would swallow up eagerly. To be surrounded by Jopson's slick warmth, and perhaps even to surround Jopson in turn, a role Edward had never played but which suddenly appealed a great deal. 

But then what? Edward could already tell that when it came to Jopson, the more he had, the more he would want, and where would that lead? There was no future for them. They could never be together. Why start something that would only break Edward's heart when it finished, which it must do, likely sooner rather than later? 

Edward stood. “Mind yourself, Mr. Jopson.” His voice was cold, detached. A lieutenant reprimanding an errant steward. “Or you shall find yourself flogged before you leave port.” He walked away quickly, to hide his own turmoil. 

Edward regrets the harsh words even now, many years and a million miles later. “I'm so sorry, Thomas.” For that. For everything. 

“Edward.” Thomas reaches out, towards Edward's arm. Edward is wearing five layers of clothing, including two knitted jumpers and a greatcoat. His skin burns with cold where Thomas' fingers touch him. “Bear up.” 

Then, Thomas is gone. Disappeared. Desperate, Edward rushes out of the tent, but Thomas has left nothing behind, not even a footprint. 

***

The next time Thomas comes, Edward is alone. 

The few of them that remain decided to separate, hoping help will be found more easily that way. It seemed a good idea at the time, but Edward's brain feels fuzzy, as if it is perpetually encased in wool. He can't orient himself, can't navigate, can't think. He may be going around in circles. He has no way of knowing, and nobody to tell him. Nobody to talk to. 

A figure appears on the horizon one day, shuffling along the shale. When it draws close, Edward can see it is Thomas. 

His condition is not good. Where his skin was pale, it is now grey. Tendons are visible in his throat, bloody ropes like rigging on his neck. Patches of yellowed bone poke through the torn skin of his forehead. When he raises an arm in greeting, his tattered shirt slips down, and Edward sees the same horrors there: bone, tendon, flayed, hanging skin. His hairline has receded, his hair sparse and brittle-looking, his beard fallen out, but for a few chunks here and there. Edward wonders how he can possibly stand upright. 

“Edward.” His voice is raspy, but stronger than Edward would have guessed. “Where are the others?”

“I don't know.” Dead, maybe. Probably. It doesn't matter. The only one who matters is Thomas. “I want to be with you. That's all I've ever wanted.” Is that true? Surely not. Dimly, Edward remembers wanting other things: a successful career, for his country to be proud of him, for his family to be proud of him. He can't recall why he ever thought these things important. He wonders if he achieved them.

“Soon,” Thomas promises. 

“Was I good, Thomas?” Edward wishes he could remember. “I made mistakes. I know that. Terrible mistakes.” He doesn't know what they were, but he knows they happened. “But did I do well?” 

Thomas reaches out. His bony hand touches Edward's hair, poking into it in an approximation of a caress. “You tried, my love.” That, Edward finds, is enough. 

***

When Edward picked up the crew manifest for the first time, the name stood out like a beacon. _Thomas Jopson, Captain's Steward._

It was bound to happen. The Navy was a small world, and there was always a chance he and Jopson would sail on the same ship. _He won't remember me_, Edward assured himself. _And I won't have the same trouble with him this time._ Six years had passed, and Jopson was very young when they last met. His beauty, along with whatever indefinable quality had ensnared Edward so quickly and so thoroughly, would have faded, perhaps disappeared altogether. Edward was sure of it. 

Edward was wrong. 

If anything, Jopson was more alluring. He had matured, in both looks and demeanour. A man now, not a boy, and a man who knew his business. He did not, however, appear to know Edward, and for that, Edward thanked God. 

He had not gained the position of First Lieutenant by being weak, so Edward drew on his strength. For the first month of the voyage, he ignored Jopson completely, speaking to him only when absolutely necessary and then as briefly as possible. 

Four weeks in, as Mr. Gibson came in to help Edward undress, the steward passed Edward one of his own handkerchiefs. 

“What's this?” Edward asked, although it was plain to see. His initials were stitched in the corner, courtesy of his loving mother. 

“Mr. Jopson said you left it in the wardroom, sir,” Gibson replied. “He asked me to give it to you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Not at all, sir.” 

But it was Jopson, really, who should be thanked. It would be rude not to, and Edward prided himself on being a consummate gentleman. The next morning, when he passed Jopson in the corridor, he said, “I'm grateful to you for finding my handkerchief, Mr. Jopson.” 

For the first time in six years, Edward was the focus of Jopson's brilliant smile. It was as devastating as ever. Blaming his sudden discombobulation on the movement of the ship, Edward steadied himself as Jopson said, “Glad I could help, sir.” Edward gave a stiff nod and walked on, determined not to look back. 

If the expedition had gone well, Edward would have succeeded in resisting Jopson's charms. That was what he told himself, anyway. Then he imagined Jopson under the beating sun of the Sandwich Islands, stripped down to his waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up, and he wasn't so sure. 

As it is, everything fell apart on Edward's birthday. 

He didn't know it was his birthday, at first. He knew he had, due to illnesses and dead men, been on watch for the past nine hours. He knew something had been spotted on the ice, or so they thought, which meant he had spent those entire nine hours tensed, his hand on his rifle, ready for anything. Ready for the creature. He was so cold, he was nauseous, and he was so tired, he stumbled below when Hodgson finally relieved him. 

It was halfway through middle watch, the literal middle of the night, not that it mattered much in the infernal darkness of mid-December. Still, Jopson met him at the bottom of the ladder, a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. 

“Happy Birthday, sir.” 

“What?” 

“Happy Birthday,” Jopson repeated, his smile unwavering. He pressed the teacup into Edward's hand. “There's a little something special in there. And I asked Lieutenant Irving to make this for you.” It was a watercolour picture of a ship at sea, beneath the words “Birthday Greetings.” Edward didn't know what to say. 

“Best get yourself warmed up, sir.”

“Yes.” 

Jopson was already walking away. _We're always walking away from one another_, Edward thought. Then another thought crossed his mind. It was a bad one. Possibly a terrible one. But after the night he'd just had, after the _months_ he'd just had, Edward needed a little comfort. 

“Will you attend me?” He called. “Rather than wake Gibson. If you don't mind.” 

“Not at all. I'd be happy to.” Jopson returned to Edward's side. 

“Thank you, Mr. Jopson.” 

Jopson's hands were warm and gentle as he undressed Edward. Between that, and the whisky-laced tea burning its way down his throat, Edward found the tension unspooling from his body, chased away along with the worst of the cold. 

“How did you know it was my birthday?” He asked, after a prolonged silence. Edward himself likely wouldn't have remembered until late in the day, if at all. 

Jopson raised an eyebrow. “Ah, well, that's a steward's secret.”

“A steward's secret?” 

“You'll find we have quite a few.” 

Edward didn't doubt it. Certainly not when one was steward to a man like Captain Crozier. “I do appreciate the effort.” He looked at the picture. Irving was a good painter. He spent hours at it, Edward knew, and was always trying to encourage others to join him. He didn't have much success with that. “You must tell me when yours is, so that I might repay the kindness.” 

“Not for a good long while. August.” 

“We shall be in the tropics by then.” Edward hoped saying the words might lead him to believe them. 

“Lovely. You can give me a pineapple.” 

Edward couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, even slightly. The reaction earned a smile from Jopson, who beamed as his deft fingers unfastened Edward's trousers. 

The action was nothing but professional, but it stirred years' worth of emotions in Edward. His defenses were down. He couldn't fight it. He put his hands over Jopson's, stilling them. 

“Mr. Jopson.” Even in the dim light, Thomas' eyes were extraordinary. Edward had never seen the like, anywhere. 

Edward was strong, resolute. The pride of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He was not a saint. When Jopson's gaze met his, he fell. 

His lips were as soft as Edward would have imagined, if he'd ever allowed himself to imagine. Calling on his scant experience with women, he opened his mouth, just a little, and permitted his tongue to press lightly against Jopson's. Jopson's hands slid to Edward's shoulders as Edward put his arm around Jopson's waist, closing the distance between them. 

“Sir.” Jopson pulled back, slightly, but made no true move to escape the embrace. “You don't want to do this.” 

“I've wanted nothing else for six years.” 

“You remember me?” 

“How could I forget?” As predicted, a taste of Jopson did nothing but make Edward greedy for more. He kissed him again, and met no resistance. Rather the reverse. It was Jopson who wound their tongues together lasciviously, Jopson who pushed Edward's trousers to the floor, Jopson who slid his wondrously warm hand into Edward's small clothes. Jopson who swallowed Edward's moans, keeping them quiet and hidden as he stroked Edward to gasping, shuddering ecstasy. 

“Happy Birthday, sir,” he whispered into Edward's ear. 

“Edward.” 

“Happy Birthday,” he repeated, licking Edward's ear and pushing him back onto his bunk. Then, “Edward,” as if it was the most beautiful word he'd ever heard. 

***

Edward knew a fair number of sailors with tattoos. Mostly ABs, but there are a few officers concealing such markings beneath their uniforms. Edward isn't one. He's never been fond of pain for pain's sake, or even for art's sake. Pushing the frozen needle, made for sailcloth rather than flesh, through his face is agonizing, the pain brutal and the bleeding severe. The experience is made all the worse by the watch chain he threads through the holes. It weighs down his skin, adhering to it in the frigid weather. But it's all worth it. When he dies, Edward needs the fare to pay the ferryman to cross the river. He doesn't trust himself to keep track of the gold any other way. 

Thomas approves. “How clever you are,” he says, stroking a careful finger the length of the chain. He's a skeleton now, nothing but gleaming bones, but Edward knows it's him. He would know Thomas anywhere. He's still beautiful, because he's still Thomas. 

“Didn't want to lose it,” Edward says. “I lost some things. Before.” He can't remember what, but he knows he did. 

“Not much longer now," Thomas tells him."It's almost time.” 

Somebody else arrives. A man. He sounds like the captain, but Thomas says, “Ignore him,” so it can't be. Thomas would never ignore the captain. 

“You love the captain,” Edward reminds him. 

“He was my captain,” Thomas says. “But you're my man.” 

He is Thomas' man, as surely as if they were married before God, gold rings and all. He wishes he'd been able to give Thomas a gold ring. 

Panic strikes. “Where's your fare, Thomas? What will you pay?” The skeleton has nothing, and nowhere to carry it. If they were on ship, they could put coins under the mast for him. The ship is long gone. 

“Don't worry,” Thomas soothes. “You have enough for both of us.” He leans forward and kisses Edward. It's hard and dusty, wet mouth against dry bone. Then, in an instant, it's not. It's soft, warm, and Edward opens his eyes to see him. 

Thomas. Healthy. Whole. Pink cheeks, coal black hair falling onto his forehead, eyes the colour of stormy seas, or precious jewels. Keeping one hand on Thomas, holding him fast, Edward raises the other to his own face. He feels nothing but smooth skin and neatly trimmed whiskers. “The ferryman took your payment," Thomas tells him. "I said you were clever.” He looks so proud, Edward's heart threatens to burst with love and pride of his own. 

“Care to dance?” Thomas asks, holding out an arm. 

They're at a party, the one where they met. Edward would know it anywhere. He's relived it often enough in his mind. Edward's uniform is spotless, his shoes mirror-shined. The room is full, and as Edward glances around, he sees familiar faces. Commander Fitzjames. Mr. Blanky. Lieutenant Le Vesconte, Lieutenant Irving, Lieutenant Fairholme, Lieutenant Gore. Drs. Goodsir and Peddie and MacDonald and Stanley. All of them smile, even Stanley, as if welcoming him here. As if welcoming him home. 

“I'm a poor dancer,” Edward admits. Thomas puts one hand on his waist, then moves Edward's hand to his shoulder. It should be humiliating, touching Thomas in front of so many people, but it feels nothing but natural. Nobody seems to mind how close they are; if anything, their continued expressions of encouragement endorse it. 

“Don't worry, my darling,” Thomas reassures him. “We can learn. We can do everything.” He leans in close, pressing a kiss to Edward's cheek, then another to his lips. “We have forever.”

“Forever.” Edward repeats. “Still not long enough, not when it comes to you.” 

Thomas smiles again, big and beautiful. Edward fancies it's in agreement, but there's no time to ask as Thomas pulls him closer and twirls him onto the dance floor.


End file.
